I want love.
How to keep one's body intact and safe, and, at the same time, not leave it decrepit and shapeless in old age? The thought has already settled in my head that sports and daily exercise are the only way to somehow keep myself in shape. Today, I can't live without intense workouts, as I'm afraid of losing what I so diligently achieved over three years.
But my husband, it seems, doesn't care. Of course, since discovering the renewed curves, he was immensely happy, showering me with a ton of warm compliments. "You've transformed, as if you've become ten years younger," he whispered in my ear, slipping his palm between my toned
thighs. "I can't control myself, you're so luscious!" From such words, one melts like a slice of ice cream under the scorching sun of a sweltering day...But interest in my body soon began to fade, and I could do nothing about it. It felt as if my beloved Antonchik had grown accustomed to the prominent definition of my tummy, the peach-like butt. What's surprising, especially in our age of the cult of external beauty? A good figure is no longer a cherished dream, but rather the norm for any modern girl and the key to strong relationships with the opposite sex. So, over time, I too grew bored with the weekly workouts, and a question crept more persistently into my head: who am I doing all this for?
My job didn't particularly move me. An ordinary wholesale trading company, where my husband got me a job as an assistant to the chief accountant, endless schedules and monotonous reports. Perhaps if I had achieved all this on my own, I would now feel quite satisfied with life, but I never knew how to do that. I always thought I would get everything if I were beautiful like an angelic child and did what the higher-ups commanded — that's what my mother taught me. But from this primitive formula, my life consisted of eternal fawning and flirting with the opposite sex, as well as irreconcilable rivalry with my own. Everyone smiled at me everywhere, everyone was incredibly glad to see me, but nowhere did I feel sincerity and warmth.
Sweet fantasies saved me from oppressive loneliness until I met my husband, and they haven't let go of me even now at thirty-three. The dreams seemed to me remarkably perverse, the kind teenagers usually see in murky dreams. Unbridled daydreaming was usually closely intertwined with a desire for lovemaking, and I demanded it with the persistence of the most capricious girl with reddish freckles.
Anton devoted almost all his time to earning money, and the question of starting a family was sort of evaded, and I wasn't particularly eager to take on the heavy burden of motherhood. I was used to being the only beloved one, daddy's little girl, looking at the whole world through rose-colored glasses.
So I'm returning from another hour-and-a-half-long workout, descending into the subway, tapping my electronic pass, and off I go. In the train car, I'm mostly stared at by excited students, those a bit older try not to get caught when I turn around. I find this devilishly pleasant, but if only someone would come over, flirt! Throw in a couple of obscenities in conversation, add a dose of sarcasm about my overly serious attitude to life, get bold — demand my phone number — no, everyone's shy, grown-ups, damn it! And those burning, playful eyes of young seekers of female charms, they're my only hope, and — my God! — how aroused I get from these straightforward gazes. I sense the lust hiding in the darkness of their colorful jeans, my thoughts carry me away into a world of pleasure. No, actually, sweet conversations aren't what I need, let them just kiss me on the lips right away, kiss my ass, roughly grab me from behind and lower me to my knees before their standing hero, and I'll gladly get to work on my "specialty"...
Finally, my station is announced and another monotonous day will be concluded with a dreary evening with a glass of wine and a foreign film, say, Histoire d'O.
The entrance stands out sharply with its whitish putty against the background of green juniper bushes. Near the entrance stands a young man of about eighteen with a well-built figure and excellent posture — most likely trying to call up to our apartment, mine and my husband's. I recognize the face: it's Seryozha, my husband's cousin's son. Anton loves him very much, after all, he's the son of his beloved sister; I don't much: he's too sharp and curious, he needs to know everything, though that's a common teenage trait.
"Hello, Anastasia Andreevna, I came to see a friend to play football, you know, he lives one floor below. Well, I wanted to drop by and see you too, visit and all that," Seryozha rattles off.
"Well then, come in, I'm glad you came," I mumble after a moment.
"Are you returning from a workout?" Seryozha's gaze slides over my waist.
"Yes, that's right, and I'm very tired. Let's go to the apartment quickly, we'll have some tea."
The apartment is spacious and cozy, welcoming its owners hospitably. Three rooms: a bedroom, a future nursery, a living room, encircled by floor lamps and ornate light fixtures. Plus a kitchen, the proper place for thinking dreamers. I point the guest to the wardrobe with hangers, turn on the light, and go to change. My husband won't be home for another two hours, so there's no point in bothering Seryozha about his friend, let him rest, settle in, tell me about his aunt.
Coming out into the lit strip in the hallway, he stood before me in all his glory. His toned athletic figure was tightly clad in stylish jeans and an Adidas T-shirt. Seryozha's face showed a kind of childish naivety combined with curiosity.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Anastasia Andreevna?"
"You do wrestling, right?"
"Yes, I've been doing judo since ninth grade, and this year I want to get my master's." — Ah, how easy it is to talk to him: Seryozha has such a responsive character.
"And you probably do a hundred push-ups?"
"At least 115 now, I set aside time for them every day."
"Amazing, what natural power is stored in a man's body!" flashes through my head.
"And do you have time for studying?"
"Actually, not really, but I try my best, I even get a scholarship, see."
"You're such a smart one, are you hungry?"
Is it really enough to just talk to a girl frankly to turn her head? Directness, an unwavering concentrated gaze, kindness — and my face slightly flushes. And I'm still the same eighteen-year-old inside!
"I'm really, really hungry."
The table was set with fried potatoes with onions and a beefsteak covered in bean sauce. The aroma from this affair was simply divine, plus I remembered the pickled mushrooms. In short, Seryozha and I seriously stuffed ourselves, his cute little face blissful in delight. The time came for Chinese tea, we just had to wait for the kettle to boil.
"Thank you so much, Anastasia Andreevna, I haven't eaten so much in my life... I mean, I haven't eaten like this!"
"You're welcome, grow big and strong. What sweets would you like?"
"Whatever you think, maybe a chocolate bar."
"Alright then, I'll bring out everything there is," — I surveyed the kitchen cabinets, and turning door after door, gathered an armful of candies and chocolate bars. "You don't have to eat it all."
Seryozha was incredibly happy — he loved to feast, oh how he did! Of course, the dinner wasn't without mutual observations. Seryozha didn't take his brown eyes off my figure, accentuated by tight black leggings and a dark purple top, under which my hardening nipples protruded. He enjoyed my bustling movements during cooking, occasionally inserting questions and choosing words for answers. Glancing back for a second, I tried to capture a glimpse of his crotch while he was remembering something. I kept trying to figure out: was he hard?
Lust added its own notes to the imagined theatrical action. (Specially for etales) I felt a rubbing and hardening male member between my already slightly sweaty buttocks, felt how the latter were kneaded under the pressure of strong fingers. My flexible body begins to writhe, trying to break free from the enemy's tenacious paws. But the thought of my own helplessness drains my last strength, and I completely surrender to desire: I spread my legs and press Seryozha's cock with my thighs. I begin to move my waist back and forth, the cock begins to throb. Seryozha's hands grasp my breasts, squeeze my nipples, my neck is covered with passionate kisses. My legs buckle, and I slowly sink to my knees. God, how I want to feel a man's cock in my mouth, to feel it tormenting my wet tongue. Seryozha, not restraining himself, pulls my head towards his friend and waits for me to figure out that I need to open my mouth before receiving the sweet prize. My lips close around the pink head, I begin to suck on it, rejoicing in the deep moans from above. Literally after two minutes, the blowjob ends with abundant clots of semen filling the entire cavity of my insatiable little mouth. There was no choice, I had to send all the sweet-smelling jelly straight down my throat, which I didn't fail to do. Seryozha was satisfied and smiled forgetfully, and I was happy that I could give real pleasure to a man, so I greedily kissed the head one last time.
An hour and a half passed, but the thoughts remained unrealized actions. In twenty minutes, my husband will arrive, and the nauseating "nothing much" and "so-so" will take their natural places. Can I change my life, make it more joyful and varied? Do I want to? Maybe I do, but I want support from strong and sturdy guys even more. Without them and their love, my life will be meaningless, that's for sure.